Beautiful
by Kiminator Mark XII
Summary: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." -F. Scott Fitzgerald.


She was beautiful. Her chocolate hair spilled around her in an elegant waterfall, and her lips were as red as blood. Her skin was flawless and the milky color spoke of years studying and perfecting theorems. Her eyes were closed in sleep, but Reid knew by heart what color they'd be when opened. He'd only seen her for just a short time, but he would never dare to forget such an important detail as what color her eyes were.

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, hearing her light voice ring happily in his ear.

"_Bye, love you..."_

He exhaled. Even her voice was beautiful.

He loved her, of course he did... But he hadn't told her.

Reid scrubbed at his face and tried to stand to his feet, but his toe slammed into one of the substantial books scattered about the room. He fell to the ground hard, refusing to bother cushioning his fall. Books crushed into his ribcage and abdomen, effectively knocking the breath out of him. Spencer's mouth gaped open, his lungs working hard to bring air into them with little success. He flopped onto his side, silently shoving books away from him with all the strength he had left. He sucked in desperately, only managing to make horrible, strangled sounds in the back of his throat. After what seemed to be an eternity, air rushed into his lungs, and he was breathing again. Reid stared at the ceiling with an empty gaze, seeing nothing, discerning nothing, his brain only sinking into the mire of his thoughts.

"_Every Penrose Diagram has its thorns."_

He had laughed, and his laughter had made her giggle in a way that melted his heart and made him fall hard. Harder than he just had. And he still wasn't breathing properly from the aftermath of meeting that amazing person that had finally, _finally _understood him.

Maybe he would just stay down here. Nothing mattered anymore. Not in light of what he'd experienced. Not in light of her.

Until now, he'd thought of his eidetic memory as a gift, as something meant for good, to bless him.

Now he knew better. It was a curse, a cancer, an ugly deformity that he was stuck with for the rest of his miserable life. He raised himself to his knees and pounded his fists into the ground so hard that blood slicked his knuckles, screaming and yanking at his hair so that it tore out in large chunks.

It didn't help, didn't erase the images, didn't make the pain subside. Nothing would. Nothing except... But no, he could never. He owed it to her to live on and deal with his failure, wallow in his misery. He had failed her in the worst way, after all. He didn't deserve relief from the guilt.

Spencer collapsed again onto his back, hands bloodied, hair sticking up in crazy directions, heart rent in two, tears leaking from his eyes. As he lie there, his ridiculous memory brought to his mind the last line of _The Great Gatsby_: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

And so he was. He was that boat that Fitzgerald depicted. His destination was behind him, yet he kept going forward against the pull of his memories and drag of his Holy Grail. A useless existence, a hopeless life of despair and vain hope with only his memories to keep him company. His detailed, perfect memories.

The lilt of her voice.

Her sense of humor.

Her incredible intelligence.

How brave she was as a psychopath held a gun to her head.

How she looked right after she was shot, lying peacefully on the unforgiving ground.

Yes, he remembered every detail.

She was beautiful. Her brown hair splayed messily about her, and her lips were bright red with blood. Her skin was flawless and milky with hours spent indoors and the pallor of death. Her eyes were closed as though asleep, but Reid knew better. He knew he'd never see her open her eyes again, and he'd never be able to properly memorize the patterns held in their depths.

"_Bye, love you."_

"I love you, Maeve," he moaned into emptiness. "I love you."

Silence prevailed, his tears flowed, and the clock ticked steadily on the wall.


End file.
